


dedication

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Rimming, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 12:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15170984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After a tough job, Dean tries to take care of Sam.





	dedication

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'rimming' square.

Sam sinks into the tub with a little tidal wave, the displacement rilling over the edge and splashing onto the tile, getting Dean's socks in the process. "Dude!" Dean says, and Sam snorts tiredly but he says, "Sorry," and Dean rolls his eyes and says, "I can feel the sincerity, thank you very much," but he says it quietly, because Sam's bruise-tired under the eyes, and it's been a long, long day.

Dean drops one of the spare towels to the floor, soaks up the spreading puddle, and sits down on the closed toilet to peel off his now-soggy socks. "You should come with a warning label," he says, wrestling them off his heels. " _Way Too Huge Little Brother, Use Caution_."

"You're the only one who'd see it," Sam says. He hisses under his breath, sinking further into the steaming water. Dean wrinkles his nose at the lavender rising up with the steam, but they only had the frou-frou kind in stock when he popped into the 24-hour drugstore for Epsom salts and aspirin. Lisa used to claim that lavender was relaxing, so that's something. Plus, he'll get to make fun of Sam's girly fragrance later, so it's sort of a win-win. Sam's knees are sticking out of the water because there's no way he'll ever fit in a normal motel tub, but he's scrunched down far enough that his shoulders are below the waterline. He sighs. "This is dumb."

"You're dumb," Dean says, automatically. Sam gives him a look, then lets his eyes fall shut, breathing in the steam. Dean leans forward, elbows planted on his knees, and slowly balls his socks into a wet knot. "Hey, that hunt wasn't a picnic for me, either, but I'm not the one who got beat up by the ghost in a freakin' freezer. How do you end up in these situations, anyway?"

Sam's mouth twitches. "Just lucky, I guess," he says.

Dean licks his lips, bites them. He tosses the ball of socks into the dark motel room through the open door and then just sits there. It's warm in here, with all the steam, and he can admit that—okay, maybe he's not exactly _relaxed_ but it does smell kinda nice. Like soap, like homey things.

It's like two in the morning and he ought to be exhausted, but he's just too wired. When he couldn't find Sam earlier, crashing through the grocery store and bellowing for him, he thought—well, it doesn't matter. He found him, he was in time. Practically a miracle, every time that's still true. Too bad they had to light the store on fire, but that's what the ghost freakin' gets. The good folk around here can just go to the Piggly Wiggly in the next town over.

"Hey," Sam says, and Dean realizes only then that he let his eyes fall closed. When he looks Sam's got his head leaned back on the rim of the tub, the ends of his hair floating in the water. "How's your leg?"

"Okay," Dean says. Sam's skin is going pink, on his shoulders and chest, the long stretch of his thighs where they're poking out of the slightly hazy water. It's a good look.

"Are you lying?" Sam says, opening one eye to squint at him.

Dean reaches over and flicks at the surface of the water, spritzing Sam's face. He gets a very satisfying nose wrinkle and Sam's eye falls shut again. "No, but thank you, Columbo," Dean says. He rotates his ankle, carefully, but yeah—even if it was sprained, it's a minor one. No big. He sits back against the toilet tank. As long as Sam's eyes are closed Dean can just—hang out here. He's just watching out, in case Sam does something stupid somehow and drowns. In case he decides to start picking at his damn wall again and has another seizure. Dean can lifeguard. He doesn't mind at all. Especially when there's all this—view.

There are a lot of things Dean hates that soulless other self for, but his workout regimen isn't one of them. Sam's looking pretty damn good—tanned to a golden bronze, muscle toned. The patch of hair on his chest has soaked to black, as has the trail of hair down his belly. The water's hazy with the mineral salts but not enough to hide anything Dean wants to see. Even soft, Sam's dick is big, flushed with the temperature and laying heavy between his thighs. Dean bites the corner of his mouth. God.

"Creeper." He darts his eyes up and Sam's watching him, slit-eyed and sleepy. "This why you made me take a bath?"

"I didn't want to have to carry you out of the room tomorrow," Dean says, and then when Sam raises his eyebrows: "Anyway, shut up."

Sam's mouth quirks, but he stays quiet. He runs his hands over his thighs, squeezing at his quads and hamstrings with his face getting tight, and Dean just watches. Sam's been running himself way too hard, lately. If only Cas hadn't let slip about the wall—Dean doesn't know how it would be different, maybe Sam would still be getting glimpses of hell either way, but at least he wouldn't have had to deal with _this_. Sam trying to fix everything wrong with the world, gunning down the highway at a hundred miles per hour, like if somehow he saves everyone in America he'll make up for whatever bad he can't remember. Like there's any real balance that can be reached in the world. Some scale where bad gets weighed against good. Dean thinks they might've found it by now, if there were. He stopped arguing, though. He's so goddamn happy to have Sam back—the real Sam, _his_ Sam—that there's no point in him trying to dig in his heels. Sam knows he'll just keep following. He's annoyingly perceptive, that way.

He's staring through weird green wallpaper when there's the dragging squeak of skin on porcelain, and he refocuses to find Sam has pushed himself mostly upright. "Water's cold," he says, rubbing his arms, and Dean nods and leans over and pulls the plug on the tub. He stands up and holds his hands out, and Sam makes a face at him but gives him his good right hand and lets himself be tugged carefully up to his feet with a huge surge of displaced water. His left shoulder's still stiff and he shivers, goosebumps rising up all over in the cooler air of the bathroom.

"Rinse?" Dean says. Sam nods and turns, drags the curtain half-closed, while Dean fiddles with knobs and gets the showerhead on, hits Sam with a blast straight from the hot tap. Sam grunts, but he slowly shuffles around in a circle to get the mineral residue off, the water draining fast away from his ankles, his skin going hot pink again. Bruises are rising up, on his ribs and arms and even his left hip, and that's not to mention the ring around the base of his throat where the ghost had him pinned up high against the wall, invisible strength dragging him another six inches off the ground.

Dean bites his lips again and turns the shower off with a squeak. The tub gurgles as the last of the water drains away. He tosses Sam the last towel and says, "Don't fall over and bust your head, I told you I didn't want to carry you out of here," and Sam rolls his eyes but starts to dry off carefully, and that means Dean's free to go out into the dark bedroom and turn on one of the lamps and then stand there with his head in his hands, breathing quietly. Okay.

They still get two beds, most of the time. It's easier. Dean dropped both of their bags and the plastic sack from the drugstore on the one closer to the door. He takes off his belt, his jeans, his overshirt. Leaves his gun on the bedside table. He rotates his ankle again, testing, and behind him Sam says, "I knew it."

"Don't start with me," Dean says. Sam's got the towel wrapped around his hips, sort of, though he's just holding it closed with one hand. He drops his eyes to Dean's bare ankle and then looks back up, and Dean shakes his head. "Come on, on the bed."

"This is really overkill," Sam says, but he shuffles over anyway, and drops down a little too hard from the way he winces. "It's just a bunch of bruises, Dean, it's no big deal."

"Yeah, nearly getting your arm torn off, that's no big deal," Dean says. He fishes the arnica out of the drugstore bag and raises his eyebrows, and Sam sighs but he rolls onto the bed anyway. He's keeping the towel on, sort of modest if it weren't for the miles of tanned skin sprawled all over the red comforter.

Dean sits down on the edge of the mattress and uncaps the cream, squirts a dollop out and spreads it over his hands, warming it up. Sam still flinches when Dean touches his ribs, though, his abs clenching up before he lets out a slow breath. In the low light from the lamp Dean can't quite see the dark smudges under his eyes, can't even really see the marks from the ghost, but he's got them pretty well memorized. He moves carefully, smoothing the arnica over Sam's ribs and then down on the spot just above his knee, then up again on the big handprint-mark over the swell of Sam's bicep. The cream goes on easy, sinking into Sam's skin and leaving it soft, the herbal smell mixing with the lavender so that the whole room just smells—nice. Better this than weird motel funk.

"Okay, turn over," Dean says, and Sam squints at him but slowly rolls, tugging the pillow under his head and holding his left shoulder stiff. Dean kneels up on the bed, gets more cream on his hands and slides careful fingers over Sam's back, running along the ridge of his shoulder blade and then taking his arm, pulling it out and watching Sam's face to see when he winces. It's not dislocated, just wrenched hard, the muscles all probably screaming every time he moves it. Dean's well familiar. He drags his thumbs under the arch of Sam's shoulder blade and his face scrunches with pain, but then he lets out a long sigh when Dean starts working small circles into the muscle, not too hard.

"Yeah, you'll live," Dean says, quietly.

Sam huffs, grimacing again when Dean hits another sore spot. "You missed your calling," he says. He closes his eyes and turns his face into the pillow. Already, he's not quite as stiff, and when Dean shifts his arm again it moves a little easier. He slides his hands up to the curve of Sam's traps, squeezing softly so Sam sighs and settles in. Sam's so warm, his skin soft and smelling so good after the bath. Dean brushes the wet tails of his hair out of the way and rubs slow circles into the muscle of his neck, and he sees it when the corner of Sam's mouth turns up.

He hasn't done this in a really, really long time. Not since—before hell. Before both of them were in hell. Sam's skin doesn't have many scars, anymore, after whatever miracle spit him back out of the pit brought his body back, but he's still familiar under Dean's hands. He gets a little more cream and then takes Sam's lax left hand, working his thumb deep into the mound of his palm and then up his wrist, his forearm. If he's going to do it, might as well go all the way. "That aspirin kick in, yet?" he says.

Sam grunts. Dean's gonna take that as a yes. His eyes are closed, still. Sirens go by, red and blue cutting through the closed curtains. Dean works his way carefully over the hurt shoulder and over to the good one, and Sam lets him take his right arm and go over the same process, working out any bits of tension and smoothing Sam into something soft, malleable. He gets another long sigh when he finishes up at the high rounded muscle of his shoulder, and then Sam mumbles into the pillow, "What's with the coddling, man?"

Dean pauses. "You complaining?"

"Definitely not," Sam says. He sounds—sleepy, lax. Dean runs two firm thumbs up the sides of his neck again and he takes a long, slow breath, his back rising, gleaming gold in the dim light. "Just making sure you weren't replaced by a pod person or something."

Dean bites his lower lip. Carefully, he kneels up high and swings one leg over Sam's, straddling his thighs, and then leans down with his hands braced on either side of Sam's shoulders and presses a kiss against the topmost knob of Sam's spine. Sam takes a sharper breath. His skin smells so good. "Just shut up and enjoy it, bitch," Dean says, soft, and then sits back up and goes to work.

Sam shifts a little, between Dean's knees, but he stays put. Dean works down his spine, slow circles over the double ridge of muscle that marches down his back. His hands are getting a little sore, but so what. Sam folds his right arm back under his pillow, his left extended out straight with his fingers brushing Dean's knee. When Dean hits the shallow part of his lower back Sam's hips shift, again. He drags his thumbs into the dimples just above Sam's ass and—yeah, there, that was another clench, another shift. He lays his hand flat on the small of Sam's back, smiles for a second, and then lifts up, gets his knees off of the towel. "Help me out, Sammy," he murmurs, and Sam silently pushes his hips up so Dean can drag the towel completely out of the way. It gets tossed off the side of the bed to land on the carpet with a thump, and Dean doesn't have to slide his hand under Sam's hips to check if he's hard but he does it anyway. Sam sighs, fingers brushing Dean's knee again. Dean leans forward and kisses Sam's neck, and then his shoulders in turn, and then the exact middle of his back, where there used to be a scar. Sam makes a low sound, deep in his throat. After a second Dean sits up again and drags slow pressure down Sam's spine, rubs into the small of his back, and then shuffles backwards on the bed to squeeze the high muscle of Sam's ass, his hands spreading over each cheek.

Not yet, though—he keeps moving, rubs Sam's hamstrings in turn, his calves, squeezes the thick knobs of his ankles, the long narrow arches of his feet. Sam's toes curl. He's not ticklish, anywhere but here, and it's tempting as hell—but Dean moves back up. He drops a kiss on the back of Sam's thigh, right above his knee, and there's hardly any response. Good. He rubs circles into his thighs, working his way up, and _in_ , and Sam sucks in a shaky breath somewhere up north but he doesn't clench up, not at all. Dean shifts, carefully nudges Sam's calves apart so he can kneel between them, and keeps rubbing. In, and in, and Sam's thighs spread easy like Dean has them on a damn crank. He can see Sam's sack, now, his nuts heavy and big, and all he can smell is lavender and aloe vera with how warm Sam's getting again, his skin flushing up for a whole new reason. He gets his hands on Sam's ass, squeezes and spreads, plants a kiss in the shallow pan of his back, and up above Sam murmurs _Dean_ but it's so quiet, so soft, and Dean kisses him again with a touch of tongue. Taste of lotion, perfume, but Sam's own salt underneath it, and Dean drags his nose over Sam's skin, over the fine golden hair here at the base of his spine. He lets one thumb slip into the crack of Sam's ass, dragging down over hard bone, over the sparse springy hair. Sam's breath is coming audibly faster but he's still not moving, still letting Dean do what he wants, and he slides his other hand up Sam's side and sets his teeth lightly in the curve of muscle in front of him, bites soft. Licks it in apology when he lets go. He's so clean, moving so easy with Dean. Work of a moment to grab the other pillow, and when he says _come on_ under his breath and tugs Sam lifts up his hips again so Dean can push the pillow under them, his ass raised now off the bed, and then Dean backs up and lays down on his belly, presses his dick into the mattress, and then he can get both his hands on Sam's pretty little ass and spread him open and lick, broad and wet from the base of his nuts, over his taint and over his tiny asshole, smearing spit all the way up to the last knob of bone while Sam gasps up above him, his glutes clenching under Dean's grip.

"Relax, Sammy," Dean whispers, kissing one pale ass-cheek, and it's a second before Sam can manage it but he does, he unclenches and spreads his legs a little wider. Dean kisses him again, damp, and then licks again, keeping Sam spread so he has room to work. Long time since he's done this, too, since Sam usually doesn't ask for it or even seem to want it, really, but right now—oh, he's letting it happen, practically melted into the bed, and it's good. Dean finds his hole again and laps around it, his mouth flooded with spit, wetting the light hair with his tongue. He shifts his grip on Sam's ass, slides his thumbs lower so he can press slow and steady into Sam's inner thighs with each lick, and Sam groans, deep and quiet. He's softening up, under Dean's tongue, and when Dean pulls back to look he has to grind his own hips into the bed, just at the shine of it, Sam pinking up even here. Dean drags his thumb over the furl and one of Sam's balls jumps in his sack, everything clenching for a second, and he has to dip down, then, licks carefully over the loose clean skin and then sucks it careful into his mouth, slow pulsing pressure. Sam's thighs shudder on either side of him, and when he finishes with one and moves to the other one of Sam's legs kicks and then draws up, his bare foot brushing Dean's side through his t-shirt.

"Jesus," he hears, mumbled somewhere up above, and he lets Sam's sack go with a pop and then licks hard at his taint, presses his tongue hard into the thick muscle, and then goes right back to his hole, kissing it sloppy and then working his tongue against it, strong steady pulses to the same rhythm he'd use if he were sucking Sam's dick. Sam's breathing hard up above and he's shifting his hips, tiny grinding motions that push his dick into the pillow and his ass back onto Dean's face. Fuck, that's—it's working for Sammy and so it's working for Dean, too, and he's getting so much spit that it's soaking back here, slipping wet down to Sam's nuts when Dean runs his thumb restlessly over them.

He pulls back for a second, slips his thumb into his mouth and presses it hard against Sam's asshole, and Sam's hips flinch but then press up, and so Dean slides it in, easy, just an inch or two but enough to break Sam open, and he leans back down and licks around it in the tight warm dark space. One of Sam's hands flashes down and grabs his head, his fingers slipping in Dean's too-short hair, and he hears _jesus christ_ again, and then, "Dean, do you—you want to—?" and, oh fuck, it's been a _long_ time since they did that and Dean's dick and his thighs and his balls all pulse and clench at the image, the idea, crawling up Sammy's back and kissing him wet and sliding in, Sam so loose and soft and letting him, welcoming him in—but, no, that's not what he wants, that's not what this was about. He breathes out hot and screws his thumb in, says, "Just this, okay, I just want—" and then he tugs his thumb back out and slides his hand under Sam's hips, his nuts dragging heavy against the inside of Dean's wrist before Dean gets the solid pole of Sam's dick in his palm. It's messy, dripping like Sam usually doesn't, smearing against the pillowcase, and Dean gets it in a tight wet grip and says, "Go on, come on," and ducks his head down and pushes his tongue against Sam's hole, and Sam groans and fucks forward into Dean's grip, pushes back against his tongue, and then it's just that short nasty grinding motion, his ass smearing wet against Dean's cheeks, and he wriggles his tongue and pushes almost _in_ and jacks Sam, his fingers finding the knot of nerves up near the head, and Sam cries out and his balls clench and his thighs go rigid and then he's coming, humping into Dean's hand, wet getting all over the pillow, his hole spasming under Dean's tongue.

Dean pulls back, breathing hard. He rests his forehead on Sam's ass, works his jaw. "Holy shit," Sam says, weakly, and Dean squeezes his dick one more time and then slips his hand out from between him and the pillow, resting it lightly on Sam's thigh. So much for Sam being clean. "Dean," he hears, and Sam's fingers brush his head again, "c'mere," and he pushes up on his hands and crawls up over Sam's body and lets Sam tug him close. Sam gets his hand in Dean's t-shirt and pulls, and Dean doesn't really have much choice but to lean in, kisses Sam soft and close-mouthed over his shoulder.

His dick pushes against Sam's ass, full and throbbing, and Sam blinks at him when he pulls back. "You want?" he says, sliding his hand down to Dean's hip, and—yeah, Dean could. He could.

Sam's a puddle on the bed, though, his eyes heavy. Dean shakes his head. "You're gonna pass out in t-minus nothing," he says, and kisses Sam again on the shoulder so he won't think it's a dig.

He gets a slow blink. "So?" Sam says. He sounds almost drunk. Dean smiles at him, soft because Sam probably won't remember these last few moments. He lifts up again and rolls Sam over, bodily, careful of his left shoulder. The soiled pillow gets tossed over onto the floor to lie forgotten with the towel. Sam sprawls out, shining in the dim golden glow from the lamp. He grabs Dean's hand before he can get off the bed, and Dean lets him have it. He squeezes Dean's fingers, blinking up at him sleepily, and somehow Dean's dick throbs against his thigh and his chest clenches somewhere deep and hidden, all at the same time. All these years and Sam can still get him, right where he lives.

"I'll get you back," Sam mumbles, and yawns. His eyes sink closed. "Tomorrow."

Dean extracts his hand. "Sure thing, Sasquatch," he says, quietly.

By the time he shoves the bags off of the other bed and drags the comforter off, Sam's asleep. Dean drapes it over him, covers up all that naked brother. The bedside clock says it's just past three in the morning. He knows he's not going to sleep. He washes his hand off in the bathroom sink and drops into one of the chairs at the room's little table, boots up Sam's laptop. He can find another hunt. Sam starts snoring, and Dean smiles. Maybe something without ghosts, this time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/175560049164/dedication)


End file.
